


A House is Not a Home

by rockinhamburger



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Marriage, Mild Horror, Mutual Masturbation, Or is it just a metaphor?, Phone Sex, Supernatural as metaphor, paranormal themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 20:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinhamburger/pseuds/rockinhamburger
Summary: Patrick has been misplacing things lately. He’ll put something down, like his car keys or his wallet, and then find it a few minutes later in a place he was sure he hadn’t put it. At first, he assumes David’s moved them, but it also happens when David’s in another area of the house or when he’s out.A ghost story.Patrick is a skeptic, but it’s getting harder to be one.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 23
Kudos: 107





	A House is Not a Home

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works since last summer, and finally came together.
> 
> This has a few suspenseful scenes, but nothing too scary (I don't think). If you have any questions about the tags, my ask is open on tumblr (@rockinhamburger).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Patrick is about to start pulling up the living room carpet that David has repeatedly called _the horrific monstrosity that is no excuse for insulation Patrick_ when he hears the front door open.

“Helloooo! Where is my husband?”

Patrick can barely contain his glee, even though he only left the store three hours ago. Maybe eventually he will get used to it and be less excited when David gets home, but he really hopes not. He will definitely never get tired of David referring to Patrick as his husband.

“Living room,” he calls.

David ventures in, looking around. “Look at you hard at work!”

Patrick crosses the room to kiss David. “Figured the sooner this is done, the sooner we will have a functioning living room.”

“I like the way you think,” David mutters, tucking his face into Patrick’s collar with a sigh. Then he pulls back and startles. “Wait, did you finish the mantle?!”

Patrick leads the way to it, aglow with the ecstatic expression on David’s face. “I still have to varnish it but we’re getting there.”

“Oh my god,” David breathes, running his hands along the wood. “Patrick! It’s beautiful!”

“Well, you found the right material,” Patrick deflects.

David waves him off. “Ronnie owed me one after the Roland Jr. incident.” He turns away from examining the mantle to kiss Patrick. “I’m very impressed! I thought you said it wouldn’t be ready for another couple of days.”

“Surprise,” he rumbles into the tiny space between their mouths, their bodies.

David pulls back to look around the living room. “So, next on the list is the horrible carpet?”

“Yes. And having another person to help, like my husband, would make it go much quicker,” Patrick hints, peering innocently up at David.

With a playful grimace, David sighs. “I suppose the manual labour is worth it for nice hardwood floors.” He smirks. “Alright, where do you want me?”

Patrick shoots David a mockingly stern look. “I know what you’re doing. You want those hardwood floors, you can’t be distracting me.”

“Ooh, hardwood.”

Patrick laughs, shoulders shaking. “ _Okay_ , if you grab that corner of the carpet, I’ll grab this one and we should be able to pull it up together. But we need to go slow.”

“Slow,” David repeats with a sultry wink. “Oh, I can go slow.”

Patrick is momentarily distracted by memories of just how slow David can go. “Let’s get this carpet up and then I’d love a demonstration.”

David shimmies. “Just gotta change.”

When David’s returned in a t-shirt and a pair of old sweatpants, they get started. They huff and puff as they start to pull up the carpet in slow increments. It becomes clear pretty quickly that there are some scratches on the floor and that the carpet was probably put there to hide them. When the whole thing is finally pulled up, all their hard work seems less impressive when it’s clear more work is ahead of them. The floor is _covered_ in scratches.

“Did someone _ice skate_ in here?” David demands, pitch rising.

Patrick’s disappointed, but David’s very funny reaction is helping. “Family activity, do you think?

David huffs. “God! Can’t we catch a break? How long is this going to set us back?”

Patrick thinks. “Well, I can probably work through the weekend and get it done by Monday. But I’d have to be at the store a lot less ‘til then.”

David pouts. “I don’t like it as much at the store without you. And I don’t like the idea of you spending your whole weekend on this. Maybe we should ask—”

“We’re not asking Ronnie!”

“Patrick,” David says exasperatedly. “Some of this work can be outsourced. You know that’s true.”

Patrick sighs. They’ve had this conversation (argument) before. “We don’t have the money.”

David rolls his eyes. “Okay, you _definitely_ know that’s not true. But I’m not getting into all of this again. I’ll take care of the pizza; you wash up.”

“David—” Patrick starts, but David’s out of the room before he can get in another word. Patrick sighs and gets out his phone to take pictures of the damage to the floor. His uncle will be able to tell him where to start.

They’ve been having versions of the same argument ever since they signed for the mortgage in October and the necessary work on the house began. Johnny and Moira offered to help with financing some of the repairs, but Patrick strongly objected to the idea and has been resolute that they shouldn’t accept the money. David has made his perspective quite clear, that Patrick is being stubbourn and prideful, and that it’s really no different than the money Patrick’s parents gave them for the wedding.

Lately, David’s been resigned and exasperated about the subject, especially as they discovered just how much work needs to be done on the house. It certainly seems like the house is trying to prove Patrick wrong here.

It just doesn’t feel right to take that kind of money from his in-laws. When Johnny had suggested the dollar amount he wanted to give them, Patrick had very nearly blacked out. It’s too much, and Patrick knows he can handle the repairs himself.

Marriage is everything Patrick thought it would be and also nothing like he imagined.

He is deliriously happy to be married to David. Six months in, he’s finally living with his husband in the house they purchased through the successful business they run together. Patrick loves being married to and sharing a home with David; he gets to wake up next to his gorgeous, persnickety, hilarious, and delightful husband every morning, spend the day with him at work, and go to bed with him. He can bask in David’s comforting presence whenever he wants.

The part he didn’t expect is the fear. He finds his mind turning over all the things that might go wrong, the ways he might fuck it up and drive David away. Is this dumb argument something he’s going to regret next year? Is he going to wish they’d just taken the money because it eventually created a wedge between them? Or, god, worse?

Most of the time, he believes what David said in his vows, but sometimes - just sometimes - his mind goes to the bad place. They’re in the so-called honeymoon period, but Patrick still finds himself poring over the what-ifs. Even though it’s obvious now why it never worked out with Rachel, he can never quite forget the ways his lack of self-awareness made Rachel unhappy for so long. He wants David to be happy. He doesn’t want to miss something integral because he’s too oblivious to see the truth.

Maybe he should just agree to take the money. No, it could cause just as many issues down the road if he does something because he doesn’t want conflict. The truth is they need to have a proper discussion about it, and that might as well happen now.

The door to the basement in the hallway creaks open, and it’s another reminder of the many tasks on their to-do list. He needs to look up how to reset a door in its frame because that happens pretty often.

He washes up and joins David in the kitchen. When they’re seated, Patrick pushes himself. “Okay, let’s talk about the money from your parents. Can I try to explain why I feel weird about it?”

David’s eyes fill with compassion and openness. Patrick loves him so much. “Of course.”

Patrick explains. In the end, it’s agreed that they will accept a smaller amount from David’s parents so they can outsource some of the work. It doesn’t feel like either one of them is giving in; it feels like they worked together to find a solution.

So, the next day, Ronnie comes by the house to assess the damage to the floor and give David her quote while Patrick’s manning the store (that arrangement seemed like the wisest). David sends him the estimate, and Patrick has to admit it’s pretty reasonable. He’s really glad he didn’t insist on doing the floor by himself. He texts back his approval and returns to their inventory spreadsheet, grateful they were able to find a genuine compromise.

His parents’ marriage has been a source of admiration and emulation throughout Patrick’s life. He suspects their example may have partly contributed to falling back into it with Rachel over and over again. Patrick’s parents had demonstrated—over and over again—that marriage is a house large enough to sustain any one argument or obstacle, that it must be treasured and tended to every day so that it doesn’t fall apart from disrepair. He is grateful to have their example leading him when problems arise.

And even in their relatively short time as a married couple, there have been problems.

Problems with getting a loan for the down payment on the house due to being self-employed. Problems like the house inspection, which turned up asbestos that required removal but at least brought down the price somewhat. Its removal had pushed back the move and added an additional expense, but at least their home is now asbestos-free. Patrick had hummed The Number at David for a few days, just to get David to transform his frustration at the situation into exasperation with his life partner.

There was also the inexplicable and surprisingly extensive water damage they discovered in the basement a week before they were supposed to move into the house. Its discovery had delayed the move by another few weeks. Thankfully, the damage was covered by insurance since there had been an inspection of the house before the sale and no water damage had been present. The mysterious source of the water damage was another story. It was unclear where the damage had come from, but it had made them reluctant to store any valuable items in the basement as a result.

That had been very stressful, but Patrick is still proud of how they managed to retain their humour about the situation and roll with the punches. As the repair workers were assessing the extent of the water damage, David had managed a laugh when Patrick dryly said, “Next we’re gonna find out the foundation is made from an aged brie.”

Somehow, it was David, not Patrick, who said, “Worst case scenario, we can always live at the motel for the rest of our lives.”

He likes the feeling of comfort that marriage has already brought him. Even in this short time, it feels like he and David are a united front.

His own ghosts are another story. He can hardly expect them to face together the problems he refuses to let David in on. They’re still figuring out how to live together, how to argue and negotiate. What if they’re not up to scratch? That fear, that anxiety, creeps up on him most effectively when David’s snoring beside him unaware. There are moments where he wonders if all of the problems they’re encountering so early in their marriage might be an omen. And then he scolds himself because he doesn’t believe in omens.

With time, Patrick trusts the fear and the anxiety will ease. The house will be finished soon enough, and they’ll settle in.

-

Patrick has been misplacing things lately. He’ll put something down, like his car keys or his wallet, and then find it a few minutes later in a place he was sure he hadn’t put it. At first, he assumes David’s moved them, but it also happens when David’s in another area of the house or when he’s out.

Patrick has been installing new shelving units. Today, he’s tackling the living room, where the newly finished hardwood floors are looking pretty damn good. But he’s lost track of his hammer.

He’s sure he put it down on top of the toolkit, but now it’s nowhere to be found. He looks everywhere; in the toolkit, on the floor beside the wooden slats, on the shelves he’s already installed, on the mantle. He stares around the room, hands on his hips, casting back in his mind to recall what he’d done with the hammer.

The door to the basement slams shut. Patrick jumps. Damn wind.

And the damn hammer. Shaking his head at himself for losing track of it, Patrick walks over to grab the next wooden slat from the pile, and does a double take when he sees the hammer sitting right next to the wooden slat. Hadn’t he checked here? He chalks it up to being distracted and gets cracking again. 

He completes his work with about an hour to spare before David will be home. He orders a pizza and sits down at the desk in the office to pay a few bills. He forgets all about the pizza until David appears in the archway, leaning against the jam and holding the pizza box in a seductive pose.

“Your pizza. That’ll be 27.50,” David says, brow arched.

Patrick hangs his head, pouting. “I was hoping to surprise you.”

“This is a surprise,” David points out with a sweet smile. “I pulled into the driveway right as the pizza man was delivering this beauty. I was happy to take care of it.” David takes on a flirty tone and aura. “But you still owe me, sir. I sure hope you have the money.”

Patrick plays along. He gets up and stalks slowly over. “You know, I think I left my wallet at work.” Patrick peers up at David through his eyelashes. “Is there… any other way I can pay you?”

David glances down at Patrick’s mouth, then back up with a conflicted look. “The pizza won’t be hot if we…”

“True. Let’s table the roleplay for after the pizza.”

“God, I love you,” David groans, moving the pizza aside to kiss Patrick, who happily joins in. David breaks the kiss. “You’re the best husband.”

“Oh yeah? Wow, and you haven’t even seen the hardwood yet.”

David gasps. They end up eating the pizza in the living room on the floor since there’s no furniture in there. They debate whether to fuck on the floor, too, but in the end they decide the bed will be much comfier. Patrick pays David for the pizza.

-

Patrick jolts awake at a loud crash from somewhere downstairs, sitting up and grasping for David automatically.

“What are you doing?” David mumbles sleepily, and Patrick would laugh about David thinking that sound was him if he wasn’t extremely concerned.

“There was a sound. Downstairs,” he whispers. David sits up and grabs Patrick’s bicep, squeezing painfully. “I should go—”

“You’re not going anywhere!” David whispers furiously. “That’s why we have cell phones, Patrick. So you don’t go wandering around bumping into murderers.”

“Shhh,” Patrick hisses, listening intently. Only silence greets them, so Patrick slides out of the bed. Or he tries to because David stops him.

“I’m serious, Patrick!” David says, much more loudly this time. “You are _not_ going down there.”

“I’ll get my baseball bat,” Patrick says, pulling away and wandering over to the closet where he keeps his equipment.

“I’m married to an idiot,” David hisses, but he’s getting out of the bed now, too.

Baseball bat in hand, Patrick turns around to see David holding a shoe, his own weapon, and they stare at each other for a second before they both break into slightly hysterical laughter. “An idiot,” David says, chortling.

They probably shouldn’t be laughing when there might be someone down there. But they are in a rural area and their doors are all locked; Patrick checked twice, like he always does. It’s unlikely a murderer is down there waiting for them.

All the same, he leads the way along the hallway to the stairs, then files quietly down with David right behind him. It’s silent when they reach the bottom of the stairs, silent and dark. He checks the kitchen, dining room, and living room, and they’re all blessedly empty of strangers. Which only leaves one remaining area: the basement.

“Okay, no!” David mutters when he sees Patrick staring at the basement door. “I draw the line at going into the _basement_ in the _middle of the night_!”

But then, out of his peripherals, Patrick notices that his newly-installed shelving unit in the living room has collapsed all over the floor. He steps into the room. “What the fuck?”

“Didn’t you just install these?” David asks from beside him.

Patrick frowns, bewildered. “I guess I didn’t install them properly.” But he did, is the thing. He installed them perfectly, with strong L-brackets and the wood glue his dad recommended.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t put anything on them yet,” David notes.

“Yeah.” Patrick shrugs. “I’ll call my dad tomorrow and see what he thinks. Maybe I used the wrong screws.”

David starts toward the stairs. “Well, since there’s no murderer I’m going to bed. And tomorrow we can talk about how you might be an adrenaline junkie.”

Patrick follows his husband, but not before spending a few moments staring at the heap of wood and then at the wall where the screws are still twisted into it.

It’s weird, but there’s obviously a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.

He reinstalls the shelves the following day and FaceTimes his dad while he’s doing it. His dad pronounces the matter ‘odd’ but suggests putting an extra L-bracket halfway along the wood slats for added support. Patrick misplaces the screws briefly and finds them a few minutes later on the mantle across the room.

Then he misplaces the hammer, too.

He switches to audio when his dad passes the phone to his mom, chatting with her for a few minutes while he’s working. Once he’s hung up, he starts putting away his tools, humming. 

A laugh pierces the quiet. He turns around, surprised. There shouldn’t be anyone in the house; David’s at the store. But he definitely heard someone laugh.

It must have been a neighbour. Patrick shoves the last of his tools in the box and picks it up just as the door of the basement creaks open. The hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stands on end.

“David?” he calls. No answer.

The door slams, and Patrick jumps. _Jesus!_ He really needs to reset that door.

-

On their joint day off, they finally get the living room liveable. There is celebratory sex on the newly-installed sectional, and they are about to cozy up for some Interflix and delivery when David’s phone rings. It’s his dad, and although there is a false start where Johnny accidentally hangs up, David eventually takes the call to the office. When he returns to the living room, his expression is noteworthy.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks, looking up from his phone.

David cringes, sinking down into the cushions of the very plush couch. “Mom and Dad are travelling to New York. Mom has press for _Sunrise Bay_ and Dad has meetings.”

“That’s cool,” Patrick says. He strokes David’s knee with his thumb, listening. 

“Mm. Stevie’s going, and Alexis will be there of course, so Dad was asking if I might be able to come out there. He was offering to buy the ticket. And it’s terrible timing, so I said no obviously, but it would’ve been nice.”

Patrick is nodding attentively, but he stops suddenly. “Wait, why’d you say no?”

“Look at this place,” David laughs, but it sounds just sad enough that Patrick’s heart swoops over. “We have so much work to do on the house, and business has picked up at the store. I’d want you to come but we can’t just close the store for a week. It’s fine. Next time things will be a lot less hectic.”

“David,” Patrick says, turning to face David properly. “You should go and spend time with your family. It sounds amazing. You said it’s for a week?”

“Four days,” David says, looking hopeful and excited but also conflicted. “Five, I guess, if you count travel time. But Patrick, I don’t have to. It’s not fair to you—”

“Hey,” Patrick says, stroking David’s arm. “Please go. I’m serious, I can hold down the fort here. Besides, I was planning to visit my folks in April, and I was trying to figure out how to make that happen with the store. Seems like a nice arrangement. You can cover the store for me then, okay?”

“Are you sure?” David asks.

Patrick nods, ignoring the tight feeling of worry beginning to unfurl. “I’m sure.”

-

The unfinished nature of the house looms large when Patrick heads home at 3:00 to get started on patching the holes in the basement walls where the water damage required removal of large chunks. He changes into an old Concordia t-shirt and a pair of fraying jeans, and moves all of the furniture into the centre of the room before he sets out his materials.

He’s spackling the smaller holes when last night comes back to him.

David’s going to New York.

His brain seems to be actively working against him, producing images of David, gorgeous and sophisticated in a New York club, swept off his feet by an equally gorgeous and sophisticated stranger. What if…? He tries to stifle the thought, but it pushes through even harder: What if David falls in love with New York? What if he falls in love with—?

That’s not going to happen. David’s not going to leave him because he’s spent a week in New York.

Still, sometimes Patrick can’t help wondering if David wants more, wants something or someone different. Someone glamorous like the people from his old life. He has a feeling David would be appalled if Patrick confessed this fear. _Ew! Those people were awful, Patrick._

But David hasn’t always thought they were awful. And there are times, like when he wanted to invite some of his old friends to the wedding, that David seems to have at least some nostalgia for those times. For those people.

The memory comes to him and makes the image of the paintbrush in his hand blur. In his vows, David had told him _I don’t want to be anywhere you don’t want to be._ That might be true now, but could that change?

A horrible vision of a possible future sprawls out before him. David visits New York and begins to regret his choice to stay in Schitt’s Creek. David starts to pull away as the resentment grows. They stumble their way through a year or two of unhappiness, and by the time Patrick realizes and tries to fix things, it’s too late.

The basement door slams shut so hard Patrick actually drops his container of spackle, splattering the floor with globs of white. He hurries to clean the mess before it sets in.

He needs to get a grip. Alexis lives in New York; David is going to visit his sister, and Patrick can’t worry like this every time. Besides, if David ever does decide he wants to move there after all, Patrick will be right there with him.

Encouraging David to go was the right call. It’ll be fine.

Patrick sets New York and the nebulous future aside, meticulously removing any evidence of damage.

-

Their next day off is a lot less lazy than Patrick prefers with re-tiling the master bathroom and David packing for his trip. Patrick spends the morning laying tiles and trying to come up with a good caulk joke, at ease with the soundtrack of David moving around in the bedroom.

By the time lunch rolls around, Patrick is very hungry. He’s been thinking about the macaroni salad in the fridge and how well it would go with an egg salad sandwich. David’s actually hard boiling eggs at the stove when Patrick walks into the kitchen. “You read my mind,” he hums, curling his arms around David’s waist and kissing the back of David’s neck.

“Egg salad sandwiches with macaroni salad is just correct,” David says, his voice warm and affectionate. Patrick basks in it, working his hands up and under David’s shirt and sweater to reach bare skin.

David laughs breathily. “Don’t you distract me now.”

“But you love distractions,” Patrick says, grazing his teeth over David’s earlobe.

“Not distractions from food,” David says archly, but he grinds back into the press of Patrick’s hips. “After we eat, you can distract me all you want. I have a few ideas. Those restraints arrived yesterday.”

Patrick can’t help it; he moans in David’s ear and thrusts lazily against David’s ass, his hands trailing their way up David’s chest. Before Patrick can thumb over his nipples, David moves so he’s got Patrick pressed against his hip instead. “You’re a menace,” David tells him with his trademark smirk. “Go get the plates.”

“You’re the one who brought up the restraints.” But Patrick pecks him on the lips and goes to get the plates. When everything’s ready, they take their food to the stools at the kitchen island and dig in, ankles locked.

“How are the tiles coming along?” David asks. 

“Pretty good,” Patrick reports. He waits until David has taken a sip of his iced tea to continue, “It’s hard at first, but you get the hang of caulk in no time.”

David chokes, coughing and spluttering. He glares while pressing his lips together furiously, pretty obviously suppressing his laughter. “Okay, _Ted_!”

“Ted doesn’t have a moratorium on great wordplay, David.”

“You know, I was about to offer to take over now that my packing’s done, give you a break, but that poor attempt at humour is making me reconsider.”

Patrick beams. “Aw, come on. I wanna see that. I know how good you are with—”

“If you finish that sentence,” David interrupts, biting his lips on a smile.

Snickering, Patrick sets his iced tea down on the counter and reaches for his sandwich, and then the basement door slams. They both jump, and David swears.

“There must be a draft or something,” Patrick says, thinking out loud. “That keeps happening.”

“It’s not a draft,” David says, staring at the hallway that leads to the basement. He glances at Patrick, then away. “I think there’s a ghost in the house.”

Oh, they’re doing a bit. “Ah yes, a ghost,” Patrick plays along. “Wish it wouldn’t slam the doors to get our attention.” David isn’t smiling, though, and Patrick realizes they’re not doing a bit. “Wait. You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” David says.

Patrick laughs. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, David.”

David has stopped eating, and he looks irritated. “Really? Is that your expert opinion?”

Patrick swallows his bite and puts the sandwich down. “You’re serious. You believe in ghosts?”

“Yes,” David says, in his familiar tone of _duh_. “Our old house was _teeming_ with ghosts. There was this old woman Alexis and I called Gertrude; she walked up and down the grand staircase at 3:00 am every night. And there was a little boy we called Jeremiah - he didn’t have a specific time, but he’d run around our wing of the house bouncing a ball. It was a whole thing: “‘There goes Jeremiah again.’” There were others too.”

Patrick can’t fight the smile breaking over his face. “And… you don’t think it could have been your imaginations?”

David’s eyebrows furrow, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, of course,” he says snidely. “We just imagined all those ghosts for the _couple of decades_ we lived in that house.”

Patrick stares some more. His husband believes in ghosts. “David,” he says, still unable to keep from grinning.

David’s eyes flash with anger and he’s on his feet in the next moment. “ _Okay!_ Fuck off with your condescending attitude.”

Completely taken aback, Patrick watches his husband storm from the kitchen and hears him pounding up the stairs to their bedroom.

How did that spiral so out of control?

Patrick returns to the tiling. Okay, maybe he was a little condescending. But the idea of ghosts and hauntings is patently ridiculous; he’s always thought so. His cousins swore up and down that their house was haunted when they were kids, and he found it strange even then. Why would anyone want to believe that people stick around after they die?

When David takes the guest room that night, Patrick starts to admit to himself that he’d also been insensitive. David had tried to tell him about an experience, and Patrick had pretty much laughed at him. And David’s leaving for his trip in two days; he doesn’t want there to be any additional tension right now.

He slides out of their bed, which is way too big for just him, and lets himself into the guest room, padding over and sitting down on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he says.

David cracks his eyes open, looking grumpily up at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for making you feel stupid. I didn’t take you seriously. I should have listened to you instead of being dismissive.”

David sits up and moves over so he’s propped up against the headboard, which Patrick takes as a sign he can slide in next to David. “I… accept your apology.”

Patrick links their hands together and brings them up so he can plant a kiss on David’s finger, right where his wedding ring is. He doesn’t ever want David to regret choosing to wear it. “It’s just…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t believe in ghosts, so it’s an adjustment for me to realize you do. For me, saying you believe in ghosts is kind of like saying you believe in Santa Claus.”

David rolls his eyes. “Right, well, saying you _don’t_ believe in ghosts, like that’ll somehow make them any less real, is like saying you don’t believe in gravity.”

Patrick reins in his utter disbelief. Even if it doesn’t make sense, he’s going to listen this time. “Walk me through this. I want to understand.”

David grimaces, but he turns so he’s sitting with his legs crossed underneath him, and Patrick mirrors him. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea? I feel like whatever I say, you’re going to counter with some scientific explanation, which is going to be very annoying for me.”

“I promise not to do that,” Patrick says, taking both of David’s hands in his. He squeezes them once in a supportive gesture, then lets David pull them away so he can use them for emphasis like he always does.

“Okay,” David says. He shifts and settles back against the headboard. “The first memory I have of a ghost, I was, like, 6 or 7 maybe? I woke up and there was a woman in my room rocking a baby to sleep.”

Patrick bites his lip on the urge to suggest David was probably dreaming. That is literally what David expects Patrick to do, so he keeps his face open and interested. As David talks, he gets a faraway look in his eyes.

“Eventually,” David continues, “I realized it happened at the same time every night. It was always the same; she’d walk into the room with the baby, rock it for a few minutes, and then she’d disappear. She didn’t look like a ghost you’d see in a movie. She wasn’t transparent; she looked solid, and she never seemed to notice me. It was always the same, like a gif or something.”

Patrick laughs warmly. “A gif ghost,” he says, and David breaks into a small smile. “Did this happen for a few weeks?” he asks curiously.

“A few weeks?” David repeats. “It happened for years. I moved to a bigger room when I was 10, but I’m sure she’s still doin’ her thing at 9:36 every night.”

Patrick frowns. A few years is a long time to have the same dream. “Wait, you saw this woman come into your room every night for years?” David nods. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

“I told my mother after the first few times,” David answers. “She said not to worry about it because the ghost wasn’t bothering me.”

That’s unsettling. Why hadn’t Moira been concerned that her child was saying he saw a ghost every night? She’d basically confirmed the idea for him. “Your mother believed in ghosts too?”

David sighs. “Patrick, it sounds really judge-y when you say it like that. I’m telling you about my experiences with ghosts and you’re acting like it’s just a ‘belief’ I have, some bullshit I’m clinging to.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says quickly, “I really don’t mean to do that. It’s just strange for me. I’ve never had any sort of experience that would make me believe in them. But I love you, David, and I’m not saying I don’t believe you.”

David bites his lip. “Okay, think of it like this. You believe in love, even though you can’t explain it. It’s not something you can prove but you can feel it and you trust that that’s what it is, right?”

Patrick’s never thought of it like that before. It’s a helpful metaphor. “Okay, I see what you mean. So, what, some ghosts have a schedule? I don’t mean that rudely,” he adds hastily. “You said that old woman would walk the grand staircase at 3:00 am.”

David nods. “Like, some ghosts or spirits or whatever are locked into a particular time and place. There’s ghosts that are less ‘bound’ that don’t seem to follow a schedule, like Jeremiah.”

Patrick’s hands are getting clammy, and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the way David’s so confident about it. “But how does that work? How would… how would they do that, exactly?”

“I don’t know how it works,” David says, “but it’s nothing to really worry about. They aren’t dangerous or anything. I mean, I’ve heard stories of ghosts being more forceful, but that hasn’t been my experience. And this one seems harmless.”

“This one,” Patrick echoes. David thinks there’s a ghost _here_. Inexplicably, Patrick’s arms break out in goosebumps. “Right. After the door slammed, you mentioned that. You think there’s one in the house?”

“At least one,” David says, nonchalant. “Seems like a mischievous one. It likes moving stuff; it keeps putting my keys in different spots.” Patrick’s heart starts to race, rapid and loud enough that he wonders if David can hear it. David continues, “Some ghosts are visual or auditory only, but some make contact or interact with objects.”

Patrick blinks at David slowly. His heart is pounding even harder. He’s thinking about his keys and his wallet and the hammer, which is ridiculous because ghosts don’t exist. “What do you mean, interact with objects?”

“Oh, yeah, sometimes ghosts make contact. There was one at our summer home in the Catskills that would tug on Alexis’ ponytail and flick hair elastics at her.” David says it casually, like it’s just a fact instead of an incredibly absurd and… slightly terrifying concept. “There was one who’d move my water glass around in the kitchen.”

Patrick debates with himself. Should he mention it? No. David might believe in ghosts, and sure, this talk is making him feel pretty creepy, but ghosts aren’t real. “So, if there is one here, what would we do about it?”

“Nothing,” David says. “Like I said, they’re harmless, and if you just carry on about your business, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Okay, David,” he says, and he kisses his husband. He might not believe in ghosts, but he believes David’s experiences are important and shouldn’t be disregarded. “Will you come back to bed?”

“Well, I suppose,” David sighs long-sufferingly, but he’s tucking away a smile the whole way back to their room.

-

Patrick glances at the clock again, pausing in his unnecessary sweeping of the store. David’s plane landed in La Guardia 10 minutes ago, according to the flight tracker and David’s text that read _I HATE FLYING thank fuck that’s over!_

Under different circumstances, Patrick might be excited about having some time alone. But he misses David already. For all of the sense he’s tried to talk into himself, Patrick can’t pretend the idea of David in New York without him doesn’t prickle his anxiety still. David said he only wanted to be where Patrick wants to be, and he believes that, but it’s hard not to doubt.

Patrick gets back from a quiet day at the store with no David to a silent house with no David. It’s genuinely awful. He settles on the couch in the living room, folding clothes and linens out of the aimlessness he’s feeling in the absence of David, when he hears footsteps on the basement stairs, and the creak of the door opening and closing.

He pauses in folding one of David’s sweaters, wary. David is long gone now, in another country. He heads to the hallway that leads to the basement, staring at the closed door in confusion. Did he imagine those footsteps and the door opening?

He thinks, unwittingly, about the conversation with David. About ghosts.

No, they don’t exist. Patrick shakes it off and gets back to his task, selecting a Spotify playlist to listen to while he’s working. He can’t hear anything with the music up.

Once the folding is done, determined to put the subject from his mind, Patrick heads down to the basement to finish the patch job he started and set aside last week. There are a few holes left to plaster in the wall beside the bar top, which will also need replacing; David has strong visions for their future basement bar.

But Patrick finds a crack in the wall and follows it to a section that was removed due to the water damage.

Where mold appears to be forming.

“FUCK!”

-

When he gets off the phone with his dad, Patrick has a gameplan. Removing the mold quickly is important, to prevent it from spreading and creating rot. He’ll get up early tomorrow.

Even with a plan, he sits for a while at the island in the kitchen, disappointed and frustrated with yet another problem that needs to be dealt with. He should probably call David to let him know, but it seems like a lousy thing to tell him while he’s trying to have a nice trip with his family.

Patrick heats up leftovers, forcing the food down quickly; it’s weird to eat at the island by himself. He and David have spent a few dinners apart in the months since the wedding, but this feels different.

What if this is his life now? Just eating alone in this kitchen because David has decided to leave him?

_Jesus_. David will be back in four days. This is ridiculous.

It’s just… what if the problems with the house get to be too much?

He’s just finishing the last bite of his dinner when he hears a loud smash behind him. He jolts horribly and lets out a shout, jumping to his feet and whipping around. He knocks over the chair in his frantic movements, heart pounding painfully.

There’s a smashed glass on the floor. He doesn’t even remember taking a glass out of the cupboard.

_Ghosts aren’t real_ , he reminds himself sternly.

After he’s cleaned up the glass, Patrick strips bubbled paint from the windowsill in the kitchen, trying not to picture a woman ascending an ornate, grand staircase or a little boy bounding down the echoing corridor of a mansion.

Trying not to imagine a ghost here, in their home, creating problems with the house that spread to their marriage like mold.

He glances at the clock. There’s a Jays game on; that’ll help.

“Patrick.”

He freezes, heart racing. That was his name, coming from the living room.

The room is silent and undisturbed when he steps inside. He looks out the window to see if there might be someone out there. He wouldn’t put it past Ray or Roland to show up unannounced and call at him through a window instead of using the doorbell.

He stretches out on the sectional (with all the lights on) to watch the game, the volume up a fair bit higher than usual. But he also has his phone out the whole time, scrolling through as many articles as he can find on scientific explanations of ghost-like phenomena. It’s difficult to find a solid explanation for the smashed glass. Articles suggest an earthquake, a strong cross-breeze, an uneven or sloping floor. None of it seems that applicable.

He reads about lucid dreaming and sleep paralysis - maybe that’s what David experienced when he was a kid. But according to David, Alexis had seen and heard them, too. He reads about hallucinations, which is probably what’s happening with him, the laugh he heard that one time and his name just now.

There’s also pareidolia, where people’s brains are programmed to find patterns, which might interpret something in the dark to look like a figure they recognize, like a person. Maybe that’s what David was experiencing at his old house.

Still, the idea that these encounters happened every night at the same time, for years… 

If the empty kitchen was bad, it’s nothing compared to their bedroom. It’s still and dark, and Patrick rushes around turning on lamps before he starts his bedtime routine. When he finally settles in their bed that feels gigantic without David, he feels bereft.

He also feels like he’s being watched. “Ghosts aren’t real,” he says out loud.

He is only a few pages into his book when his phone rings with a FaceTime request from David. “Hey!” he answers eagerly. 

“Hey,” David says warmly. David’s leaning against a pile of pillows, one arm up over his head. He looks gorgeous. Patrick hopes his heart thumps this much from seeing his husband when they’re old and grey.

“How was your day?” Patrick asks, mirroring David’s body language. The mold in the basement comes back to him right then, but he doesn’t want that to ruin this nice conversation, so he tucks it away for later.

“It was really nice,” David murmurs. “We went to this amazing sushi place. Alexis told the staff all about the time she had to make a perfect California roll on a Japanese game show. Dad could not stop raving about the beef sashimi—” David takes on the cadence and air of his father— “‘This is even better than that one place we went to. What was it called, Moira? The one with the counter? Well, it was somewhere on the coast, and this is even better than that.’” Patrick chuckles. “And then my mom and Stevie got drunk on sake and recreated choreography from _Cabaret_.”

“Wow,” Patrick snickers. “Wish I could’ve seen all of that.”

“Mmm, you’re better off. When we got back to the apartment, Stevie threw up on the carpet and knocked over a vase, so we’ll definitely have to pay for damages to the owner. But more importantly, think of my rating, Patrick.”

Patrick hums with laughter. “Your poor rating.”

“Yes. Well, how was your day? How’s the store?”

“Store’s good,” Patrick murmurs softly. He sighs. “I miss you.”

David’s mouth twists up in a sweet smile. “I miss you too. Wish you were here.”

Patrick sweeps a hand over the empty side of the bed, tilting the phone for a moment to show him. “It’s so lonely in here.”

“Yeah?” David says, biting his lip. Patrick can see that he’s moving, that the arm muscles of the hand not occupied by the phone are pulled taut, and he can tell that David’s started getting himself off. “You feeling lonely, honey?”

Patrick puts his hand inside his sweats, strokes his hardening cock. “Yeah, so lonely,” Patrick sighs. “Miss your cock so bad.”

“‘Course you do,” David hums. “You love my cock.”

“I love it, David, _fuck_ ,” Patrick groans, and he pushes the waistband of his sweats down so he can get a proper grip, tilting the phone down so David can see. “Look how much I love your cock.”

“Oh, that’s a lot,” David says breathily. “You wanna see it?” Patrick whimpers in reply, waves of pleasure sparking out from where he’s stroking. David tilts the phone down, and _god_ , David’s jacking himself nice and slow. “Miss your mouth, Patrick.”

Patrick strokes faster, harder. “Yeah, _yeah_ , David. Fuck my mouth. I’d be so good for you.”

“I know you would,” David moans. “You’re so good at it. Get me all sloppy and take me in your throat. Choke on it a little, ‘cause you just can’t help yourself…”

Patrick cries out. He’s so close. “I can’t, I want it so bad, David. You could put your cock in my mouth and leave it there, for hours—”

David moans, “Yeah, like a good cock warmer…”

“Oh, David, fuck _fuck_ , I need it, I—” he groans as he comes hard.

David lets out a hitched breath, gasping, “ _Oh_ —” and Patrick watches David’s face as he comes, eyes closed, expression slackening from release. Patrick reaches blindly for a tissue to clean up and can tell from the rustling that David’s cleaning up too.

Patrick sighs, sinking back into his pillow at the same time David does.

“Just wanted to call to say goodnight,” David says with a satisfied smirk.

“And so you did.” His responding smirk shifts into a smile that he hopes is absent of his sadness at the night ahead without his husband beside him. “Goodnight. Love you.”

David smiles. It’s so, so beautiful. “Love you. Goodnight.”

That smile helps him sink under, and the fact that his husband misses him. Not as much as Patrick misses his husband, but then that just doesn’t seem possible.

-

His alarm wakes Patrick very early. He reaches out automatically for David and feels a little pang when he remembers, texts him _Good morning. Love you._ and heads downstairs to get rid of the mold.

It’s not too difficult to remove the one small patch, but the problem is that there could be more mold to find.

He’s about to brush his teeth after his shower when he notices that a few of David’s skin care bottles have been toppled over on the counter. He puts them back in their places hurriedly, concerned they might have spilled, but thankfully they must have been closed because there’s no mess to clean up.

He knows how particular David is about his products and how meticulously he lines them up. It’s possible Patrick knocked them over when he shut the door to the bathroom, but that seems unlikely given it’s never happened before. The bathroom window is shut, so there’s no breeze that could have knocked them over. He shakes off the jarring image of David’s belongings just haphazardly strewn about and rinses his mouth so he can start the 20-minute drive to the store.

He’s just finished getting dressed when he hears the sound of cupboards and drawers opening and closing downstairs in the kitchen. What the fuck? Is someone in the house? Stevie’s the only person with a spare key, and obviously she’s in New York.

He scales the stairs silently, heart pounding. When he steps quietly into the kitchen, there are two drawers pulled halfway out and the cupboards above the refrigerator are wide open. Patrick takes in the scene, mouth agape. Snapping out of it, he checks the locks on the front and back door. He even goes down to the basement to check the lock on that one, unable to ignore the goosebumps on his arms.

The doors are all locked.

Patrick heads back upstairs, mindful of the time. Could a… squirrel have gotten in somehow? He decides to check the windows, but he freezes in the doorway of the kitchen when he sees that the drawers and cupboards that were open a few minutes ago are now firmly shut. So are the windows.

A text notification pings his phone, and Patrick jolts. He lets out a long breath, willing his heart rate to slow as he checks his phone to find David has texted him back. He should have left for the store by now, so he hurries out the door and to the car.

He reads David’s text when he’s inside the car with the door shut, external sounds muted where he’s sitting in the driver’s seat. _Good morning. It’s a lot louder in the city than I remember. And people move so quickly. Love you!_

Patrick smiles and texts back _Are you telling me you’ve gotten used to rural life?_ Then he puts his phone in the cup holder, glances in the rearview mirror at the house, and starts the ignition.

The house looks perfectly inviting as always, but Patrick doesn’t feel so welcome at the moment.

He spends another morning at the store alone serving a steady stream of customers and cleaning items that really don’t need to be cleaned. He texts David about a visit from Tara Gould, who treated Patrick to a thorough discussion of her inverted nipples. Patrick barely survived the encounter, particularly as he kept imagining David’s expression had he been there to witness it.

He doesn’t have much of an appetite, so he skips lunch. He is doing inventory when Ronnie enters the store. Patrick steels himself; he feels extremely thin-skinned right now, and that is not good considering Ronnie always seems to find the exact right buttons to push.

“Brewer.” With a brief nod of acknowledgement, she heads straight for the fridge to get her usual tapenade and cheese and then to the shelf where the crackers are displayed.

“Hey, Ronnie,” he says neutrally.

“Where’s David?” she asks, picking up a jar of lotion before she stops at the counter and sets down her items. “Doesn’t he take the afternoon shift?”

Patrick recognizes this for the fishing expedition it is; Ronnie likes to pretend she’s above the gossip in this town, but she is definitely the one to go to when you need to know something. Not that she’d tell Patrick anything, since Ronnie can’t stand him, but she gives David the best gossip, so Patrick doesn’t have to ask anyway.

If Patrick tells her where David is, it’ll be the talk of the town by dinner. “He’s in New York with his family,” Patrick informs her.

“Family reunion, huh?” Ronnie replies in her usual dry tone. “Guess David trusted you enough to man the store by yourself.”

Patrick bristles at the patronizing undertone, but forces a polite smile as he rings up her items. “Haven’t set fire to it yet.”

Ronnie lifts an eyebrow like she is tempted to dig into him for the smart remark, but in the end she changes the subject. “How’s the floor?”

Patrick hides his surprise. This might be the most civilized conversation they’ve ever had. “It’s great, Ronnie, thank you. David was thrilled.”

He doesn’t bother reading out the cost of her transaction off the register; the one time he did that, Ronnie told him, “I can read, Brewer,” and he hasn’t done it since. She swipes her card through the machine, and Patrick takes the Rose Apothecary tote bag from her to bag the items.

“Well,” Ronnie says as Patrick hands her the bag with her purchases, “if you guys need any more help, you just let me know. If I can’t do it, I know people.”

Patrick feels his throat tighten with sudden emotion. She’s being _nice_ to him. How bad must he look? “Thank you, Ronnie,” he says sincerely.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m not doing it for you, it’s called networking.”

The emotions of the last few days are catching up to him, the anxiety and fear, the weird shit happening at the house. The stupid mold in the basement. “Right,” he croaks out. “Um, there is something. But I gotta check with David first.”

_If David comes back._

“You do that,” she says simply. Patrick nods some more, still fighting back the emotion. He bites his trembling lip in the hopes that will stop him from shedding a tear in front of Ronnie fuckin’ Lee.

“God, you look like a kicked puppy,” she sighs. She pulls the straps of her tote bag over her shoulder. “When David gets back, tell him you’re out of the olive tapenade.”

“Will do,” he says, clearing his throat. “See you, Ronnie.”

As she leaves, Patrick finds himself comforted by the knowledge that Ronnie is not the type to offer meaningless reassurance. If she thinks David’s coming back…

He is a mess. This is ridiculous. _David is coming back._

When he finally locks up for the day, he heads to the Cafe, putting off the moment when he’ll have to go home to their empty house, which he loathes to admit is starting to feel genuinely creepy.

He keeps remembering what David had told him before he left for the trip: _Ghosts are harmless, and if you just carry on about your business, they’ll leave you alone._ It’s unsettling that these words keep returning to him when he shouldn’t need to remember that, since ghosts don’t…

He orders the special and is distracted from his racing thoughts by a surprisingly comforting if typically terrifying life anecdote from Twyla. The food is moderately edible, and he finds his next few bites are harder to swallow as the thought occurs to him. He really is an absolute mess, and it’s only been two days.

“You okay, Patrick?” Twyla asks, pinning him with her piercing gaze. “Missing David?”

So, the news has spread, as Patrick predicted.

“Yes,” Patrick admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "But he'll be home in a couple days." It's as much a reminder for him as it is information for Twyla. He considers, and because she seems like the right kind of person, he asks, “Do you believe in ghosts, Twyla?”

Twyla’s eyes light up. “Oh! Do you see her?”

Patrick’s heart jitters to a stop. “Sorry?”

“Mary,” Twyla continues, smiling. “She usually sits in that booth.” She gestures, and Patrick turns to look, heart racing, but the booth is empty. When Patrick turns back, Twyla must be able to read his expression. She shrugs. “Most people don’t see her, it’s okay.”

Obviously she believes in ghosts. Patrick forges on. “David thinks there might be a ghost in our house. I’ve never really believed in that stuff, but I’m starting to wonder. There are… weird things happening at the house.”

Twyla looks thoughtful. “Well, my mom always said ghosts are really just manifestations of our unresolved issues. Which would explain why the one that lived with us always screamed and rattled the walls of the house whenever she brought a new boyfriend home. Maybe you and David have some unresolved stuff to work through? Don’t we all?” She laughs lightly, then looks at his place setting. “Are you done?”

Patrick is fully staring, but the question snaps him out of it. “Yeah, yep, all done.”

On the drive home, Patrick realizes the conversation with Twyla really did not help. He keeps imagining what the screaming might have sounded like, and the rattling walls. At home, he’s about to head upstairs when his eye catches briefly on the basement door, which is ajar. He walks over to close it, figuratively shaking himself. “Come on, Brewer,” he mutters, and he heads upstairs to a quiet, empty bedroom.

There’s a text from David waiting for him when he finishes washing up and gets into bed. _We;re at a karaoke bar! Miss yuo! Wish u were here singign rightnow._ Patrick chuckles to himself; David will be in no state to chat tonight, so he texts back that he loves him and to have fun.

But as he lays in the dark, doubt starts to invade. What if David gets hurt? But his family is with him, and Stevie’s there, so if anything happened to him, he would be okay.

What if—what if someone comes on to David, and he—

_No_ , Patrick tells himself firmly. _Don’t go there. You know he’d never—_

_But he did. On your wedding day._

_That was a misunderstanding. It wasn’t—_

Patrick sits up and drinks some water from the glass on the bedside table. The happy ending was a misunderstanding. He’s just being insecure, and bordering on jealousy now. They are married. David is going to come home to him; he’s not going to find someone else.

David’s never liked a smile more than Patrick’s. He feels _safe_ with Patrick. David loves him.

_For now…_

Patrick tosses and turns for a long time. Eventually, he falls under.

He comes wide awake to the sound of breathing in the room. He holds his breath, willing his heart rate to slow the fuck down. He’s having… one of those lucid dreams or something. He lifts his head and scans the room, and what he sees makes him clench his eyes shut. He resists the temptation to pull the covers over his head like a child.

A shadow figure. At the foot of the bed. Far too tall to be a person.

It feels like his heart has actually stopped, he’s so scared. If he just keeps his eyes closed, it’s not real. The breathing he can still hear isn’t real either.

Is he dreaming? It feels so real.

Patrick summons calm, forcing himself to breathe more evenly. David’s stories from last week and the conversation with Twyla earlier are making him see things, that’s all.

But the breathing is so loud, god, what the hell.

He hears a door slam downstairs, and the kitchen cupboards and drawers opening and closing again, and he lets out a terrified whimper. He nearly succumbs to diving under the covers, but then he shivers as a burst of cold grips him, and even if he wanted to pull the blankets up now, he physically cannot because he is unable to move.

Patrick has never felt so scared, so uncertain, so helpless. What can he even do? No amount of convincing himself it’s not real appears to be helping his body get with the program; he’s paralyzed.

If he could get his phone from the table… If he could call David… 

He lies there with his eyes shut, body still, trying to keep his breath even. He has no idea how much time passes, but eventually he manages to curl his toes and fingers in, and that seems to allow him to twitch into movement. He rolls over on his side and gasps for breath, listening intently for the breathing. He feels clammy. He looks meekly over at the foot of bed.

Nothing. It’s quiet again. The house is still.

He scrambles for his phone. It’s 3:23 in the morning. There’s a text on the screen, _gnidht love yu_ from David. Patrick debates calling him, but it seems silly and needy, so he gets up and goes down to the living room to put on something in the background. There’s no way he’s getting any more sleep tonight.

He is wired when it’s finally an appropriate time to get up and face the day. David will be home tomorrow, which seems so far away. It’s too early to call him, but he wants so badly to hear his voice.

He doesn’t eat breakfast, can’t stomach it. The memory of the cold that held fast to him last night, of the breathing and the shadow figure… it’s all so vivid.

He waits until lunch to call David, while he’s eating in the backroom. David picks up after a few rings. “Hey honey!” he says. He sounds out of breath, like he’s walking.

“Hey. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, you have perfect timing,” David says brightly. “I’m a few blocks from Alexis’ place. Mom and Dad are meeting us there in an hour.”

“That’s nice,” Patrick says. David sounds good. Patrick misses him in a way that physically aches. “Sooo, how was your night?” he asks playfully.

David laughs. “Oh god. It was good, but I regretted it this morning. Finally feeling like a person after a New York bagel. How are you doing?”

Patrick almost tells him. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but what can David even do from New York? He’ll be home tomorrow; Patrick can wait.

“I’m fine.” He decides to lean on humour. “Oh, good news! We sold two plungers this morning.”

“Oh wow, that’s amazing!” David says, all fake enthusiasm. “And how many brooms did we sell?”

Patrick laughs. He feels a bit more like himself.

But when he gets home, the house is unbearably empty and silent. He repaints the windowsill in the kitchen, trying very hard not to notice the whispering voice in the living room, not quite loud enough to make out words, but distinct enough that it sounds like a female voice.

He answers a call from his mother with a sense of deep relief at the interruption to his rising unease at the continuous murmuring in the next room. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” she greets him cheerfully. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”

“It’s good to hear yours,” Patrick tells her, and it’s true. Talking to her helps. It was so difficult to feel disconnected from her and his dad for so long.

“So, how are you?” she asks. “How’s David?”

“I’m good. David’s been in New York with his family this week, so I’m keeping an eye on the store.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says. Patrick hums in vague agreement, and after a moment she shrewdly asks, “Or is it?”

“No, it is,” Patrick says quickly, caught off guard. “I’m glad he’s with his family.”

“But?” she asks.

Patrick feels his shoulders drop with relief. “But…” It’s strange that she knows him so well, and yet she, like him, had no idea there was such an important part of his identity waiting to be discovered.

He thinks about his answer. He is not about to tell her about last night or all the other strange and frightening things that have been happening. And really, the heart of the problem is that David’s not here. “But… it feels weird. Being alone here without David.” He’s not sure if ‘here’ means the house, the store, or Schitt’s Creek. David’s intrinsically wrapped up in all of them.

“Well, that makes sense,” his mother says. “Have you two spent much time apart since you got together?”

Patrick thinks about that. He can’t remember going more than a day without seeing David in… Damn, they’ve basically seen each other every day since they went into business together. No wonder he’s feeling so out of sorts. “Not really,” Patrick admits. “But shouldn’t I be able to handle five days without him?”

“You are. Handling something isn’t the same as enjoying it,” she points out. She’s annoyingly right, so Patrick makes a David-worthy ‘tsk’ sound and his mother laughs joyously. “So, how are the repairs coming along?” she asks.

“Terrible,” Patrick sighs. He tells her about the mold, and she is appropriately empathetic about it. “God, I just wish we could fast forward to the part where the house is finished, and David and I can settle.”

She laughs again. “Oh, sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but a house is never finished. There’s always something.”

“That might be the least encouraging thing you’ve ever said to me,” he grumbles, accusatory.

“Sorry,” she replies, clearly not sorry at all. “Your father and I have been working on this house for 36 years, and there are always parts that have to be worked on and repaired. A house is for living, and you just can’t live in a house and not produce some wear and tear along the way. Right now there are broken shingles to be fixed and a leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom. The work never ends.”

Patrick hangs his head. “Okay. But did our life together have to start with so much work? The asbestos and the water damage, the scratches. And now the mold. There shouldn’t be so many problems right off the bat, should there? Just seems like a sign, sometimes.” He wasn’t planning on saying that last part, but he’s grateful he did. He can breathe a little easier with it off his chest.

“Patrick,” she says, voice gentle. “It’s not about the problems; it’s how you solve them together. If it helps, the trick is to keep your sense of humour. It’s a lot easier to deal with a leak in the ceiling when you’re too busy laughing to take your frustration out on each other.”

Patrick smiles. They have been doing that, for the most part, the problem-solving and the laughing. “Next you’re gonna tell me I’ll look back on the asbestos fiasco with fond nostalgia.”

He can hear her smile through the phone. “Don’t you already?”

She’s right. Which means it would have helped Patrick if he’d told David about the mold right away, just so they could commiserate together. “Anyway, what about you guys? How’re you and Dad?” he asks suddenly.

Her responding laughter at the subject change is bright and genuine, and he finds himself laughing too. It’s a nice conversation, but not quite enough to fill the void where David should be once they hang up.

He sleeps on the couch again. Or, actually, he doesn’t sleep, but he lays on the couch with the television on all night, and if there is any weird phenomena happening in the house, he can’t hear it. He manages a brief 30 minutes of sleep close to dawn, and when he wakes up it’s because the basement door has slammed shut very loudly. Patrick starts his day exhausted.

David’s due to arrive home around dinner time. Stevie is going to be dropping David off on her way home from the airport. Patrick wishes he could go pick David up just for something to do after work, but it doesn’t make sense.

Patrick is halfway through unloading the dishwasher when he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing and the familiar bustle of David’s movements in the hall. “Hi!” David calls. Patrick immediately heads out to help David with the bags and to say hi and bye to Stevie.

Once everything is inside and David’s removed his boots, Patrick pounces. “Hey,” he says after they’ve kissed, leaning into the caress of David’s hands on his back. David smells good and he looks like a million bucks in his leather jacket. He drags his nose along David’s jaw and inhales his cologne. He groans, leaning in for another kiss.

David laughs into it. “Okay. Let me wash up and I’ll join you in the bedroom?” David gives Patrick a lingering kiss with promise before heading upstairs.

Patrick indulges in a few mental images of what David might do when he joins Patrick in the bedroom, watching David struggling up the stairs with his carry-on. He should probably help, but he’s busy marvelling at how gorgeous his husband is, how incredible it is that he managed to convince David to marry him.

No, that’s—he didn’t _convince_ David to marry him. That’s just not how it happened.

It’s time to talk to David.

When David’s washed off the airplane, Patrick is waiting for him at the end of the bed. He’s barely spent more than a few minutes here in the last 48 hours, but it already feels so much warmer with David in the house again.

David sits down, clearly sensing it’s not the time for certain bedroom activities. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. “You look tired.” David grimaces in apology; he’s always telling Patrick how annoying it is when people comment on how tired you look. It must be pretty obvious then.

“Well, first of all, I found mold in the basement.” He grimaces as he says it, and at David’s rapid expression of heartbreak and frustration. “I got rid of the small patch, but we should probably talk to Ronnie and see if she knows someone who can make sure it didn’t spread.”

David sighs. “Well, we did know that could happen with all the water damage.”

Right. This is why he should have told David; he makes everything okay.

Patrick has to tell him. “Also, something happened, the other night,” Patrick says, heart picking up speed like he’s back in his paralyzed body again. “I was in bed, and I woke up and there was a… shadow figure standing at the foot of the bed.” David’s eyes widen in alarm, and Patrick keeps going now that he’s finally able to get it all out. “I couldn’t move. It was breathing, I think? Really loudly, and I - I couldn’t move at all. I felt cold and paralyzed.”

David squeezes Patrick’s hand. “Oh my god! That’s so scary!” David rubs Patrick’s arm with his other hand. “You should have called me. About the mold and about this.”

Patrick nods. “I know that now, but - I just kept thinking… what could you have done from New York, you know?”

“Patrick,” David says gently, his hand a firm weight around Patrick’s hand in David’s lap. “Next time, _call me_. If there’s really nothing I can do, let’s make that something we decide together.”

Patrick slumps, letting go of all of his tension from the past week, and David gathers him in his arms. “I missed you so much,” Patrick murmurs.

“I missed you too,” David murmurs back, squeezing him really hard in a way that makes it clear he means it. “Let’s not make a habit of taking trips without each other.”

“Okay.” He smiles, then pulls reluctantly out of the hug so he can say the things that are caught in his throat. “I had some really awful thoughts while you were gone. I kept…” Patrick leans forward on his elbows. “I kept thinking that maybe you would find someone in New York. Or that you’d like it there so much you wouldn’t come back. I know it’s stupid, and I knew it every time I had the thought, but it just kept coming up.” David laces their fingers together, eyebrows knitted in understanding and love, and god, is that ever a wonderful thing. That love permits Patrick to say what’s been on his heart and mind since the beginning. “I’m scared. That I’m going to mess this up and you’re going to want out.”

David makes a supremely doubtful expression and rubs at the space between Patrick’s shoulder blades; Patrick feels the warmth of his touch and his gaze filling up the cold space that’s been holding fast to him all week.

“I worry about that all the time,” David tells him. “That _I’m_ going to mess this up and _you’re_ going to want out. I was worried you might have said yes to the trip out of obligation, and that you’ll just do things out of obligation until you’re sick of it and ask for a divorce.”

Patrick laughs. The idea is ridiculous. 

Perhaps the reverse is also ridiculous.

“Never gonna happen,” he says firmly.

“I’m glad you told me,” David continues. “Let’s try to talk about… this stuff. God knows it doesn’t come naturally to me, but it would probably help?” He has one eyebrow arched gracefully. Patrick kisses him; David is too cute to resist. “For all we know, it’s perfectly normal to think you’re gonna fuck it all up when you first get married. Oh god, maybe it never goes away?? We should ask around.”

Patrick kisses his husband again. “Pretty smart thinking there. Glad I married you.”

David leans in close to press their foreheads together. “Glad I married you.” Then David sits up straight again. “Now, this shadow figure you saw. That’s different from a ghost.”

Patrick glances sidelong at him. David sounds so confident. “How… how is it different?” 

“My mother’s medium, Vashti, told me about this a long time ago,” David says. “Shadow figures aren’t ghosts, they’re kind of like demons that feed off you. Like, your negative thoughts and emotions.”

Patrick swallows nervously. That is… absolutely terrifying. “So… the shadow figure wasn’t the ghost? The one you were talking about before your trip?”

“No. Trust me, I had a shadow figure following me around in Singapore. But that was after my girlfriend at the time abandoned me because she said I’d inspired her to finally live her life-long dream of working for a traveling carnival.” David nods seriously. “Low point for sure.”

Patrick files that fascinating anecdote under _later_. “So, our ghost didn’t do that? Paralyze me or whatever?”

David shakes his head, expression thoughtful. “I mean, I’m not an expert, but I really don’t think our ghost is menacing or violent like that. I have a feel for auras. Our ghost is more like Casper.”

Jesus. Auras? Demons? “This is so weird and confusing, David,” Patrick complains.

David pets at Patrick’s shoulder comfortingly. “It can be, yes. But the good news is that we can do something about the shadow figure. I can ask around and see if there’s a good medium around here that can get rid of it. We’ll figure it out together.”

Patrick lets out the breath he’s been holding for the last five days. Then he processes what David said. “Well, you might want to ask Twyla about mediums. Apparently there’s a ghost that haunts the Cafe.”

“Oh, Mary?” David says. “Yeah, that’s who I was planning to ask; Twyla will know someone. If not, maybe Ronnie.”

“Ronnie!?” Patrick dramatically flops back on the bed. David cranes over him, smiling. “Okay, first I want to suck your cock,” Patrick says firmly. David shimmies at him and gives him a lusty look. “Then we’re going to eat a lot of pizza.” David shimmies even harder, and Patrick laughs again, so happy and relieved. “And finally I want you to tell me everything about the paranormal in this town. Seems like you’ve been holding out on me.”

David leans down for a kiss. “My husband has such good plans.”

Patrick settles under David’s comforting weight, pressing up into a thorough, charged kiss.

He feels no fear or anxiety at all, not even when the bedroom door slams shut.

-

Patrick enters the dining room with the serving dish of chicken and roast potatoes to find David finishing up the story he’s been telling Patrick’s parents. “And _that_ is why you should never invite JK Simmons to a party.”

Patrick sets down the dish beside its matching smaller dish of pan-seared broccoli. He’s been trying out some of those meal delivery kits, and this one looks and smells pretty good. “David, I’m not sure my parents know who that is.”

“You know, Patrick, I’m a little offended,” his father says. “Of course we know who JK Simmons is.”

“Yeah, he does insurance commercials,” his mother says with a wink.

Once their plates are filled, Patrick joins his family.

His mother sighs happily. “The house is absolutely beautiful. This chandelier is really something.”

It _is_ something. Luxurious, but handmade with David’s exacting vision. “That’s all David,” Patrick says, shooting David a smile.

“Got it commissioned from one of our vendors,” David says after he’s finished his bite. “This is amazing, honey.”

His parents murmur their agreement, and Patrick flushes with pride. He’s been enjoying exploring new recipes now that the work on the house has slowed. It’s not finished; his mother was right that a house is never finished, but a work in progress. He’s starting to appreciate the house as an ongoing project rather than see it as a goal to be completed.

“Did you design it?” his father asks. “The chandelier?”

“It’s modeled after the one we had in our house, the one we lost,” David says without a hint of regret or awkwardness. “It’s not an exact replica, obviously, because a four-foot-long chandelier would look ridiculous in here.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says teasingly. “That kind of chandelier would really spark some conversation. I still think we should’ve sprung for it.”

David gives Patrick one of his very favourite looks.

“Oh,” his mother says. “Did you two get the backyard design sorted? Last we heard, you were still deciding between a patio and a porch extension.”

“Mm! Did we get that sorted, Patrick?” David asks, playfully putting his hand on his chin in faux-curiosity.

Patrick rolls his eyes fondly. This is their latest fun argument. “We’re still on the fence about that one.”

“Speaking of _fences_ ,” David says significantly, “we could get started on the fence if you’d just admit patios are gauche and porches are superior.”

“They are not, and I demand an apology to patios everywhere.”

“I’m sorry I asked,” his mother says, chuckling, and that sets them all off.

With 15 months of married life under their belt, Patrick has also begun to see their marriage as an ongoing project. For a while, Patrick had been preoccupied by the idea of him and David being _settled_ , but that doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. He finds himself looking forward to their disagreements, to the inevitable problems, to tackling them together. 

He tries, on a daily basis, to remember that a marriage is for living. Wear and tear is normal, evidence of their commitment and care.

The light of the chandelier above flickers, almost like agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @Likerealpeopledo for the stellar beta work as always - thank you for your amazing feedback and for workshopping titles! Thanks to @fishyspots for the validation and cheerleading! Thanks also to @Distractivate for guidance on house ownership, appraisal, and repair, of which I know nothing. And finally, thanks to wonderful fandom friends for brainstorming many things such as celebrity and paint colour suggestions.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
